Scott Hubbard

The Curious History of Christmas

As day dawned over England on December 25, 1647, the nation woke to the strangest Christmas of all: no Christmas. For the first time, Christmas had been canceled.

Christmas canceled? Indeed, Christmas canceled. Noël nixed. Advent outlawed.

Twelve years later, the Massachusetts Bay Colony followed suit. In place of decorations, they posted the following public notice:

The observation of Christmas having been deemed a Sacrilege, the exchanging of Gifts and Greetings, dressing in Fine Clothing, Feasting and similar Satanical Practices are hereby FORBIDDEN, with the Offender liable to a Fine of Five Shillings.

Had the spirit of Scrooge settled over England? Had Mount Crumpit moved to Massachusetts? Had the White Witch swept through the West on her way to conquer Narnia?

Well, no, not quite. In fact, as we travel through some of the history of Christmas past, we who love the coming of Christ may feel a strange sympathy rising in our hearts for the Puritans who did this. We may not want to cancel Christmas ourselves, but we may feel newly aware of the season’s many follies. More importantly, we may feel freshly eager to consecrate Christmas to that one great end so easily hidden under wrapping paper, buried beneath holiday bustle, and lost in shopping malls: the worship of Christ himself.

Birth of Christmas

We might imagine that the birth of Christmas coincided, more or less, with the birth of Christ — but the story is a bit more complicated. For the first three centuries of church history, few seem to have celebrated Christmas (and those who did may have known nothing of December 25).

The first Christmas celebration on record dates to the mid-fourth century, with Julius I (bishop of Rome from 337–352) being the first to declare December 25 as the date for the holiday. December 25 was the darkest day of the year in the then-used Julian calendar — a fitting day to celebrate the birth of the “great light” (Isaiah 9:2).

Yes, fitting — but accurate? Perhaps not. Joseph Kelly, with reference to Luke 2:8, notes that “shepherds in Judea were outdoors from March until November,” making a spring, summer, or fall date more likely than a winter one (The Origins of Christmas, 55). So why December 25? Did the symbolism of the winter solstice prove decisive, especially in the absence of another clear date? Were Roman Christians attempting (as many claim) to baptize or counter winter pagan festivities, such as the weeklong celebration of Saturnalia or the Feast of the Unconquered Sun?

Possibly. The history is somewhat tangled, and the influences are not always clear. A century before Julius I, for example, a Christian named Sextus Julius Africanus suggested March 25 as the date of Christ’s conception — another fitting day, given that some Christians dated the creation of the world to March 25. So, the December celebration of Jesus’s birth may have flowed, in part, from that supposed date (Origins, 60).

For the purposes of this article, however, we can say this confidently: Whether or not early Christians wanted Christmas to counter pagan holidays, the celebration of Jesus’s birth did indeed find itself nestled among pagan traditions from the start — and, as a result, popular celebrations of Christmas sometimes could look decidedly unchristian.

The story of Christmas, then, is not the story of a once-sacred holiday becoming increasingly corrupted by secularism and commercialism. The sacred and the sacrilegious, the holy and the profane, the profound and the banal have always met at Christmas. They have been entwined, from the beginning, like holly and ivy.

Day of Debauchery

From the early years of Christmas, and on through a full millennium, perhaps the most formidable threat to Christmas worship was one we might not expect. Our seasonal associations are so cozy and snug, so cheerful and family friendly, that we read with surprise some accounts of Christmases long ago. In many times and many places, December 25 was a day of debauchery.

In his book The Battle for Christmas, Stephen Nissenbaum offers a window into some celebrations of old:

It involved behavior that most of us would find offensive and even shocking today — rowdy public displays of eating and drinking, the mockery of established authority, aggressive begging (often involving the threat of doing harm), and even the invasion of wealthy homes. . . . Christmas was a season of “misrule,” a time when ordinary behavioral restraints could be violated with impunity. (5–6)

Drunkenness, lust, revelry, sacrilege, theft — we do not imagine these elements when we sing “the glories of Christmases long, long ago,” but there they were, parading in the streets for all to see. Judith Flanders notes how the first English Christmas carol was a drinking song (Christmas: A Biography, 31).

“Goodwill without a good God means little. A large heart without a large Christ remains too small to save.”

We find the same dark thread no matter how far back we travel. In the fourth century, soon after the first Christmas celebrations, the pastor John Chrysostom “warned his congregation about feasting to excess and about wild dancing, and he urged them to approach Christmas after a heavenly and not an earthly manner” (Origins, 126).

Perhaps, then, we can understand why English lawmakers in 1644, three years before the famous ban, lamented how a day “pretending the memory of Christ” in fact displayed “extreame forgetfulnesse of him.”

Season of Snug

Then, about two hundred years ago, something changed. Slowly, gradually, through the complex and surprising trail of history, Christmas grew less raucous and more tame, less lewd and more child-friendly, less like a naughty elf and more like a jolly Santa.

By the early nineteenth century, new traditions were taking Christmas from the street and the bottle to the home and the hearth. The indoor Christmas tree, first seen in 1605, became common. Gifts for children, at first a muted part of the holiday, became extravagant. And, of course, parents started telling tales of a certain St. Nicholas and his eight reindeer.

An 1852 book, noted by Flanders, illustrates the difference in two drawings (124–25). “Old Christmas Festivities” pictures a scene filled mostly with rowdy men eating, drinking, and dancing. A woman in the center looks coy as a man leans in for a kiss. A child in the corner works. Meanwhile, “The Christmas Tree,” depicting a more modern scene, shows us a room of mostly women and children, demure and adorable, surrounding an ornamented tree.

Superficially, the season of snug seems more amenable to Christian worship — at least, much more amenable than a drinking party. At the same time, its superficial resemblance to Christian values may present a different kind of danger. When the Christmas stage is filled with shepherds and cherubs, family and fun, stars and trees, we can forget to notice that the manger is still empty. Debauchery displays an “extreame forgetfulnesse” of Christ; so does vague cheer and general merriment.

As I recently reread Charles Dickens’s 1843 novella A Christmas Carol — a book that many claim “invented” our modern Christmas — I found myself needing to be on guard lest I reduce Christmas to mild church attendance, an inclination to charity, and a loving family around the fire. I do not mourn Scrooge’s transformation, of course, any more than I wish the Grinch’s heart had stayed two sizes too small. But I need reminding that goodwill without a good God means little, that a large heart without a large Christ remains too small to save.

No matter how jolly, a Christmas shorn of Christ offers gifts without a Giver, a feast without God’s favor, and cheer without the costly love of our incarnate Lord.

Packages, Boxes, and Bags

We have one more stop on our journey through Christmas history. We have seen the wild dancing; we have felt the glow of bright fires. And now, mingled with jingling bells and roasting chestnuts, we hear the ching of the cash register. The Christmas of the last century and a half, and the Christmas of today, is big business. Really big.

As we watch the Grinch undergo his own Scrooge-like conversion, he does not bring a mere Christmas goose to the Cratchits; he instead returns all the toys he had so despised — those tartookas and whohoopers, those gardookas and trumtookas. But we have come a long way even from the original Grinch, which appeared half a century ago. Then, the song of Whoville still rose above the toys as the real reason for the season. Today, the Grinch would hear much less singing and much more noise; he would see far less hand-clasping and far more controller-holding. Had he come to our towns, might his heart have remained the little prune it always was?

If Christians of old had to guard against Christmas debauchery, we have to guard against Christmas commercialism. Our holidays are not so much in danger of drunkenness as of December sales and the bustle of buying — “the commercial racket,” as C.S. Lewis called it (God in the Dock, 338).

Donald Heinz notes the subtle yet deeply deforming effect such a racket, coming at such a time, can have on God’s people. Engaging in mindless, Christmas commercialism “re-trains believers to act like consumers precisely when they are behaving religiously” (Christmas: Festival of Incarnation, 225). Here indeed is our threat: not that we would imagine toys and trinkets as the meaning of Christmas, but that the liturgies of the shopping mall would become enmeshed with the liturgies of worship, shaping us in ways we hardly recognize.

In reality, Christ and the commercial racket ever have been, and ever will be, at irreconcilable odds. The Lord we hail on Christmas morning was born and raised in poverty. He, more than anyone, warned against the dangers of wealth and the deceptive glitter of stuff. He told us that we cannot serve God and Mammon (Matthew 6:24); might we also remember on Christmas that we cannot celebrate both Christ and Amazon?

I have no broad cultural or political burden to “put Christ back in Christmas.” But as a worshiper of Jesus (and now especially as a father with a young family), I do have a burden to make Christ the blatant, unashamed, all-consuming center of our Christmas. The world will do what the world will do, but can we not witness to a different way?

Could We Cancel Christmas?

Witnessing well in the Christmas season will require some careful thought and planning. We may need to interrogate our received traditions (perhaps especially the commercial ones), asking if they actually say anything at all of Jesus. Upon investigation, we may find that many elements of our cultural Christmas can be grafted into a sincerely Christian approach to the holiday. Other elements, however, may need to be shoved back up the chimney.

As we consider what might stay and what might go, we would do well to remember the dominant note in the Bible’s version of the story: joyful, awestruck worship. “Glory to God in the highest!” the angels shouted from heaven (Luke 2:14). The shepherds, after witnessing the wonder with their own eyes, then “returned, glorifying and praising God” (Luke 2:20). Shortly after, Simeon and Anna lifted their voices heavenward at the sight of the infant Christ (Luke 2:28–32, 38). And whenever those wise men saw his star, “they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy” (Matthew 2:10).

Can we not, then, raise children who know that Christmas is more than a toy store under a tree? Can we not wrest the season back from the powers of a commercialized culture and find our deepest joy in that most precious gift, received without price? Can we not labor to make our homes and our hearts living Nativity scenes, where the presence of Jesus slows our hurried pace and satisfies our cravings for more?

If we give gifts, can we do so as an explicit expression of God’s generosity, and perhaps with a modesty that keeps the main Gift clear? If we decorate, can we not adorn our trees and homes as the Israelites of old wrote truth on their doorposts? And if we make merry, can we not also make plain, in both silent and spoken ways, that Jesus is Lord of the feast?

Perhaps more than all, can we not believe that the coming of Christ holds treasures of wonder we have barely begun to explore? Augustine leads us in Christmas worship: “Man’s Maker was made man, that he, ruler of the stars, might nurse at his mother’s breasts; the Bread might be hungry, the Fountain be thirsty, the Light sleep, the Way be tired from the journey” (Origins, 122) — and all so that sinners might be saved, the dead made alive.

We could not cancel Christmas if we tried, nor would most of us want to. But as secular carols fill the mall, and as the craze of commercialism tramples the season like a runaway sleigh, we do have the opportunity — indeed, the commission — to point the season’s lights in another direction: to God enfleshed, the Infinite as infant, I Am as Immanuel.

Give Thanks Against Temptation: The Spiritual Power of Gratitude

No one had ever seen a more unusual band of soldiers. Or heard. As the men slowly advanced toward the front lines, no armor glinted in the sunlight; no war cry pierced the air. Instead, colorful robes adorned these soldiers’ shoulders, and they were armed with nothing but a song. And at the heart of the song were two words that seemed severely premature: “Give thanks.”

Give thanks to the Lord,     for his steadfast love endures forever. (2 Chronicles 20:21)

So sang the vanguard of King Jehoshaphat’s army; so marched his first men into war.

Their enemies, surely disoriented, perhaps took some courage, thinking Judah’s warriors had lost their minds. But as the next minutes would show, the soldiers’ song of thanks proved more powerful than any sword. For “when they began to sing and praise, the Lord set an ambush against the men of Ammon, Moab, and Mount Seir, who had come against Judah, so that they were routed” (2 Chronicles 20:22).

Judah’s enemies were routed by song, vanquished by praise. And the first sounds to fill the expectant air of war were those two surprising words: “Give thanks.” Many a war today is won with the same words, even if our foes have changed. Many a sin lies slain, many a lie gets daggered, and many a devil flees at the sound of this weapon called “thank you.”

Weapon Called ‘Thank You’

Often, in Scripture, thanksgiving arises after deliverance — after God has answered the prayer, brought the rescue, trampled the enemy. But among the many examples of post-deliverance thanksgiving, we find several striking examples of the saints thanking God before the battle begins — as a weapon of war.

Alongside Jehoshaphat’s army, we might recall what Daniel did when faced with King Darius’s insane decree: “Whoever makes petition to any god or man for thirty days, except to you, O king, shall be cast into the den of lions” (Daniel 6:7). Daniel would not, could not, endure a month of prayerless days, much less make petition to a creature of dust. So, “he got down on his knees three times a day and prayed, . . . as he had done previously” (Daniel 6:10).

Were I Daniel, my prayers would no doubt plead and beg and earnestly ask for deliverance. Daniel, however, did more: he “gave thanks before his God” (Daniel 6:10). Let kings rage and lions roar; Daniel will still be heard saying “thank you” to his God. And with this weapon, he silenced fear, proclaimed God’s faithfulness, and so trusted in his God all through the awful night.

“Under God, thanksgiving can become not only the raised cup after battle, but the drawn sword beforehand.”

Chief among gratitude’s soldiers, however, stands our own Lord Jesus, who knew how to thank his Father before the four thousand were fed (Mark 8:6), before Lazarus shook off his graveclothes (John 11:41), and even before his own betrayal. “He took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them” (Matthew 26:27). Maundy Thursday heard the agonized prayers of Gethsemane; it heard also the stunning sounds of gratitude. And in part through that “thank you,” Jesus saw more clearly the joy set before him, “that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom” (Matthew 26:29), and he found strength to trust until the empty tomb.

Under God, thanksgiving can become for us an army marching forward, declaring God’s steadfast love against the hordes of unbelief. It can become not only the raised cup after battle, but the drawn sword beforehand.

Counting Blessings, Killing Sins

Consider now your own life. You are no soldier marching toward battle, no Daniel facing the lions’ den, no Savior engulfed in darkness. But in Christ, you have many strong and subtle foes. And Godward gratitude is one of your sharpest swords.

Take worry. How do you repel a rising anxiety and welcome the peace that passes all understanding? How does your embattled mind become garrisoned by the forces of grace? Not only by “[letting] your requests be made known to God,” but also by doing so “with thanksgiving” (Philippians 4:6–7). “Father, though worry weighs on me so heavily, thank you. You have proved your faithfulness so many times; you will prove your faithfulness again.”

Or take sexual temptation. How do you create an atmosphere in your heart that chokes the lungs of lust? Not only by removing “filthiness,” “foolish talk,” and “crude joking” from mouth and mind, and not only by remembering that “everyone who is sexually immoral . . . has no inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God,” but also by filling your soul with the fragrance of gratitude. Instead of sexual sin, Paul says, “let there be thanksgiving” (Ephesians 5:4–5). For lust cannot live in an utterly thankful heart, a heart that gratefully knows God as its treasure.

Or take bitterness. How do you “let the peace of Christ rule in your heart” when someone in your community drives you crazy (Colossians 3:15)? How do you go on forgiving and forbearing instead of allowing anger to kill your love — or bitterness to cool it (Colossians 3:13–14)? In part, by obeying the command to “be thankful” (Colossians 3:15). When we sincerely thank God for his mercy in Christ, when we gratefully trace the kindness that covers our sins, another day of love feels a little more doable.

We’re not talking here about a bland and banal, cross-stitched and clichéd “count your blessings.” We’re talking about war. Thanksgiving is an act of war. We count our blessings to kill our sins.

Begin and Abound

A habit of thanksgiving, however, rarely comes easily — especially in the grip of temptation. Far easier to allow worry over the walls, to cede ground to lust, to open the gates before bitterness, than to boldly raise gratitude’s flag. And understandably so. When Paul travels to our sin’s twisted center, he finds there an ancient thanklessness: “Although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened” (Romans 1:21). Sin never says “thank you” — not sincerely, not from the heart.

So, how might naturally thankless people wield the weapon of thanksgiving? We might consider a two-part plan: begin and abound.

Begin

A habit of thanksgiving grows, in part, from beginning our prayers with gratitude and praise. On some regular basis, then, we might resolve to say “thank you” before we say “help me.” Before we voice whatever burdens feel most pressing, we might pause, remember, and spend some time naming God’s past faithfulness, his present help.

Such a practice holds dangers, of course, because thanksgiving holds no value apart from what John Piper calls thanksfeeling. Habitually “thanking” God from a thankless heart warrants the rebuke of Jesus: “This people honors me with their lips, but their heart is far from me” (Matthew 15:8). In fact, perhaps the worst prayer in the Gospels begins with “thank you” (Luke 18:11–12).

At the same time, Scripture gives us warrant to begin with thanksgiving; it also gives us hope that such a practice may nourish into our hearts not only the words, but the feeling too. The Levites of old “were to stand every morning, thanking and praising the Lord, and likewise at evening” (1 Chronicles 23:30). Whatever the circumstance, each day found the Levites adorning the dawn with thanksgiving and bedewing the dark with gratitude.

“Thanksgiving is an act of war. We count our blessings to kill our sins.”

In the New Testament, Paul commands us to “give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:18) — indeed, to thank God “always and for everything” (Ephesians 5:20). Such commands suggest more than mere spontaneity. By grace, resolving to thank God “always” can push us to remember our many reasons for thankfulness. And remembrance, like a net thrown into the heart’s waters, often catches fresh feelings.

As you begin with thanksgiving, then, remember particular answers to past prayers. Remember the gifts God has scattered so generously about you. Remember how much you have that you don’t deserve — and how little you have that you do. Remember the main reason for gratitude named in the Old Testament: “For he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever!” (1 Chronicles 16:34, 41). And then trace that goodness and love in the figure of your dying Savior, resurrected Lord, ascended King, and coming Groom.

As we do so, the Lord may well set a table before us in the presence of our enemies — our own worry, our lust, our bitterness — and our cup will overflow with thanks.

Abound

If we regularly begin with thanksgiving, we may find ourselves slowly doing more: abounding in thanksgiving. Paul names such abounding as one of the central pillars of the everyday Christian life:

As you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving. (Colossians 2:6–7)

Abounding in thanksgiving is not a discrete practice; it’s not a step of prayer on the way to petition. Abounding in thanksgiving is a lifestyle. When we abound, we find gratitude rising from our hearts as our bodies rise from bed. We say “thank you” unplanned, unpremeditated, as our eyes catch red falling leaves or the morning’s frosted dew. We bow our heads before meals not merely by brute force of habit but by a living impulse of the heart.

And when the forces of temptation advance, we wield thanksgiving like a weapon well used and close at hand. With Jehoshaphat’s singers, we march toward the battle with song. “Thank you!” we sing, and the sword descends. “I trust you!” we shout, and sin lies slain.

Single Men with Many Sons: How to Be a Spiritual Father

One of the best fathers in the Bible is a man who had no children of his own. No biological children, that is.

The apostle Paul lived and died an “unmarried man,” always “anxious about the things of the Lord, how to please the Lord” (1 Corinthians 7:32). A frontier missionary; a restless church planter; a once-stoned, thrice-shipwrecked, five-times-lashed man — he had little room in his life for a stable home and a growing family. But he was, even still, a father. One of the best fathers the Scriptures offer.

“One of the best human fathers in the Bible is a man who had no children of his own.”

In fact, we find no other man so often associated with fatherhood in the New Testament. He called men like Timothy and Titus “my true child” (1 Timothy 1:2; Titus 1:4) and his churches “my beloved children” (1 Corinthians 4:14). He saw himself not simply as missionary or apostle or teacher, but also as “parent,” as “father” (2 Corinthians 12:14–15; 1 Thessalonians 2:11). Paul seemed to gather children wherever he went — even in prison (Philemon 10). He was a single man with many sons.

And in Christ, God calls any man, single or married, into the same kind of fatherhood.

Fathers Without Children

For long ages, the robust fatherhood we find in Paul was limited to, well, fathers — men with biological children. The Old Testament sometimes suggests a kind of spiritual fatherhood, as when Elisha refers to Elijah as “my father” (2 Kings 2:12). But for the most part, men who had no children of their own would have been tempted to say, “Behold, I am a dry tree” (Isaiah 56:3). The family line ends with me.

But then Jesus came: single, yes, and also the most fruitful and multiplying man who ever lived. Without marriage or children, without even a home where he might lay his head, he still surrounded himself with “his offspring” (Isaiah 53:10), “the children God has given me” (Hebrews 2:13). He was a dry tree in terms of biological lineage, yet his branches now cover the world.

In Jesus, then, we find a new kind of fatherhood alongside the old: a fatherhood not of the flesh, but of the spirit; not of the home, but of the church. Where once a father’s family tree required biological descent, now a single man like Paul can pass the gospel’s inheritance from one faithful son to the next (2 Timothy 2:2). Any man can be a father who will preach the gospel and disciple.

And more than that, Christian men are made for such fatherhood. We are made to be not only sons who follow behind, and not only brothers who walk alongside, but also fathers who chart the course ahead.

Four Paths to Spiritual Fatherhood

For a number of reasons, however, spiritual fatherhood may feel beyond reach. Some younger, struggling men may wonder how they could ever lead others. Others may wish they first had a spiritual father themselves, so that they had some example to follow. And then even older Christian men may look around, notice the lack of sons in their life, and feel unsure where to find them.

How then does a man in Christ become a father in Christ — young or old, single or married? Consider four paths to spiritual fatherhood from the life and letters of Paul.

1. Live worthy of imitation.

For Paul, two words lay near the heart of faithful fatherhood: “Imitate me.” He called his children not simply to listen or learn from him, but to follow him as he followed Christ. “I became your father in Christ Jesus through the gospel,” he tells the Corinthians. “I urge you, then, be imitators of me” (1 Corinthians 4:15–16). The first step to spiritual fatherhood, then, is leading a life worthy of imitation. Spiritual fathers are farther along on the journey of faith and Christian maturity.

Saying, “Imitate me” does not require perfection, of course. This side of heaven, any man worthy of imitation will wish he were more worthy of imitation. But saying “Imitate me” does require integrity. It requires an all-of-life pursuit of Christ. In other words, the house of a father’s life doesn’t need to be fully renovated, but there can’t be any secret rooms.

“The first step to spiritual fatherhood is leading a life worthy of imitation.”

By the transforming grace of Jesus, spiritual fathers are increasingly able to point to any area of life and say, “Follow me here as I follow Christ.” Follow my spending habits and my entertainment choices. Follow my spiritual disciplines and my work ethic. Follow, as Paul says elsewhere, “my teaching, my conduct, my aim in life, my faith” (2 Timothy 3:10). And when I fail in any of these areas, follow my repentance.

Regardless of whether anyone is following you closely right now, what if you lived expecting to be imitated? What if you awoke and worked and spoke and ate with the question in your head, “Could I call someone to follow me here?” Maybe, like a new biological father, you would begin to feel yourself freshly responsible for more than yourself, watched by more eyes than your own.

And when you discover some area where others should not follow you, don’t give up or despair. Most men, at most times, have some area that needs renewed attention and resolve. Focus on following Jesus there today, and then again tomorrow, and a life worthy of imitation will increasingly emerge.

2. Pursue specific sons.

Physical fatherhood is, at times, unintentional: a man can get a son without wanting one. Spiritual fatherhood, however, begins and continues only with careful intention. These fathers go and find their sons.

Of course, some men’s lives are so worthy of imitation that sons go and find them. But in each of Paul’s own father-son relationships, he initiated. Often, he had to initiate because the children in question were not yet in Christ. So, he became a father to churches like the Corinthians and to men like Onesimus by first winning them to Jesus (1 Corinthians 4:15; Philemon 10). Yet even when he didn’t have to initiate (when the son was already a Christian), we still find him doing so.

When Paul came to Derbe and Lystra and heard a good report there about a young man named Timothy, we read, “Paul wanted Timothy to accompany him, and he took him” (Acts 16:3). Paul wanted Timothy. He wanted this young man to serve with him “as a son with a father” (Philippians 2:22). And so, he took him. Thus was born the deepest, most enduring father-son relationship in the apostle’s life.

When I compare my own intentionality to Paul’s, I realize that I often expect spiritual fatherhood to happen on accident. But if a man has a relationship with a spiritual son, in all likelihood that relationship has come because he saw a man, befriended him, and then invited him to come along — to read along, pray along, eat along, evangelize along, rest along.

As you think of the younger men around you — younger in either age or faith — whom might you take intentional steps toward? Whom might you fold into your life in meaningful ways? Whose gifts might you “fan into flame” (2 Timothy 1:6), even at the cost of much time and attention? If we wait for spiritual fatherhood to happen on its own, it probably won’t.

3. Develop discipleship patience.

Any man who pursues younger men will realize (and often quickly) his need for patience. Much patience. Disciples tend to grow slowly, just like children (and just like us). But through every advance and setback, rise and fall, breakthrough victory and miserable retreat, spiritual fathers remain faithful. Steady. Patient.

“Discipling a spiritual son in Christ takes time, creative thought, precious energy, and lots of heart.”

Paul’s patience may appear most clearly in his fatherly heart toward the Corinthians. Only a forbearing father would remain loyal to such a church. And loyal Paul remained. He not only planted the church, but taught there a year and a half (Acts 18:11). He not only taught there, but wrote letters after he left, often addressing deep immaturity. And he not only wrote letters, but laced his words “with love in a spirit of gentleness” — the patience of a father (1 Corinthians 4:21).

Where did such patience come from? It came, in part, from Paul’s ability to look at immature sons and see an image of their future glory. Like Jesus with the twelve, Paul could trace a line between what is and what could be — and in Christ, what will be. He could see the possibility of purity in those struggling with lust, the hope of contentment in bitter hearts, the grace of diligence in sluggish hands.

And so, despite his incredible patience, he refused to lower the high bar of holiness, and instead raised his sons up to the bar. “Like a father with his children,” he wrote to the Thessalonians, “we exhorted each one of you and encouraged you and charged you to walk in a manner worthy of God” (1 Thessalonians 2:11–12). There could be no higher standard of conduct than walking “in a manner worthy of God.”

When you consider the younger, more immature men around you, do you see them with the dogged, deep-down hope that they, however weak or wandering, could walk increasingly worthy of God? As you see their weaknesses, do you see also their potential in Christ? And might your words — patient yet believing and bold — become one of the means God uses to call them higher?

4. Embrace the greater blessedness.

As we consider the intentional pursuit and patient investment of spiritual fatherhood, perhaps the cost looms large. Discipling a spiritual son in Christ takes time, creative thought, precious energy, and lots of heart. If we run the commitment through a relational calculator of profit and loss, we may well decide to remain childless. Jesus, however, would have us use a different calculator altogether: “It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35).

Paul models what it looks like to embrace this greater blessedness. As he writes to the Corinthians,

I seek not what is yours but you. For children are not obligated to save up for their parents, but parents for their children. I will most gladly spend and be spent for your souls. (2 Corinthians 12:14–15)

Hear the father’s heartbeat: “I seek not what is yours but you.” I do not seek your fast growth, your tit-for-tat repayment, your easy ego affirmations, or even your recognition of all that I do for you. Rather, I seek you. From the depths of my new heart in Christ, I seek the good of your heart in Christ. And therefore, every sacrifice and service, every hard word spoken and burden borne carries the unmistakable aroma of Christian gladness.

Or as another spiritual father put it, “I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth” (3 John 4). Behold the secret of spiritual fatherhood: under the sun, there is no greater joy than to see spiritual children walking in the truth. And those who taste such joy will be on their way to becoming a father, single or married, with many sons.

The Spiritual Discipline of Sky: How the Heavens Shape a Heart

Sometime soon, consider conducting a little experiment. Grab a jacket, go outside, find a nice patch of grass to sit or lie upon, and then, for fifteen minutes, simply stare at the sky. Having conducted such an experiment myself, perhaps I can give you a sense of what to expect.

Expect, first of all, to feel strange. Unless you find a private patch of grass, you may be the object of spectacle and whispered concern. Thrust such discomfort behind you and stare on.

Expect also a small reacquaintance with natural elements often avoided: some dew upon the back, some aphid upon the wrist. Embrace them. For these fifteen minutes at least, you are an outdoorsman.

Then perhaps, with eyes upward, you may wonder what in the sky could keep you occupied for a full quarter of an hour. Bored, you may feel an urge for your phone; you may look at your watch and find that, no, ten minutes have not yet passed — only four.

But then, at last, you may begin to notice. You discern some variety among the billows above, and words from sixth-grade science class begin to drift beside them. Are those cirrus clouds? you wonder. And that — a cumulonimbus? You allow yourself to see again through a child’s eyes and observe now not clouds but the shapes of seals and bears, dogs and dragons. Between white wisps, you spy a faded half-moon, hastening late to its rest.

And then, maybe, you will begin to feel small, as the few square feet beneath you fit like a tiny photo in a large frame. A question may trail to your lips with new feeling: “What is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?” (Psalm 8:4).

Finally, if the Spirit opens your eyes and ears, you may hear a hint of that silent song always sounding: “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork” (Psalm 19:1). You may suddenly feel not alone, but enfolded within the vast and personal presence of God — glorious as the sun, inescapable as the sky, near as the next breath of air. And you may go back to your day different, carrying with you the song of the sky.

The Heavens Declare

The word heaven — usually referring to the sky — appears some seven hundred times in Scripture, from the very first verse (“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth,” Genesis 1:1) to one of the last (“I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God,” Revelation 21:2). Saints of old found something worth seeing in the sky. They looked up a lot.

To them, the sky was wonderful. It was a castle for King Sun and Queen Moon (Genesis 1:16). A celestial clock chiming the days and seasons (Genesis 1:14). A spacious tent for the children of man (Isaiah 40:22). A stage for the players of cloud and wind, rain and lightning (Job 37:2–4). A canvas colored daily. A ceiling more beautiful than the Sistine Chapel’s. A friend ever familiar, ever new.

“To our fathers in the faith, the shapes of the clouds always found a way to spell one word: G-L-O-R-Y.”

And yet, the sky was wonderful only because it was something else first: personal. From clouds to constellations, from eastern rise to western set, the sky was God’s work. He names the stars and nightly bids them shine (Psalm 33:6; Isaiah 40:26). He raises the morning sun and scatters midnight shadows (Matthew 5:45). He throws thunderheads across the horizon and aims their every drop (Psalm 29:3–4; 147:15–18). And therefore, to our fathers in the faith, the shapes of the clouds always found a way to spell one word: G-L-O-R-Y (Psalm 19:1; 29:9).

Something deep within us answers back. Days of gray oppress the soul. Smog has a way of clogging not only the atmosphere but our hearts. When, some months ago, the smoke from Canadian wildfires coated Minnesota skies with ash, the loss was palpable. We may feel as dour as Puddleglum by disposition; even still, we can’t bear to live in Underland.

And yet, apparently, on ordinary days of blue and white, we can bear to give the sky barely a passing glance. While our forefathers traced the shape of God’s goodness in the clouds, and heard the shout of his glory from the sun, we often run through the world with heads covered, like men holding umbrellas on clear days. Fifteen minutes, even under a sky of wonders, can feel like a stretch.

Mobile Roofs

Several forces conspire to keep our heads down — some new, some old. We might group them under two main heads: we are disenchanted and distracted.

The biblical writers bear the marks of a holy enchantment with the heavens, an enchantment many find difficult to kindle today. Part of the problem lies in our large electrified cities, where streetlights substitute for stars. God’s word to Abram to count the celestial lights holds less force for urbanites like us, who often can count them quite easily. The moon has lost its army, and we have lost our awe.

Many also feel too enlightened, too scientific, to be much impressed with blue-sky magic and starry spells. The ancients may have heard the sky-clock chime; we have cracked it open and seen the gears. And so, we have heard many intelligent people say something along the lines of Stephen Hawking’s quip: “The human race is just a chemical scum on a moderate-sized planet, orbiting around a very average star in the outer suburb of one among a hundred billion galaxies.” Such words corrode wonder.

Perhaps most of us, however, face a larger foe: distraction. We are, in the main, a hurrying and scurrying people, a buying and selling people, a screened and headphoned people, and we have neither time nor interest to consider the sky. We may catch a billow of cloud reflected on the screen, but such heavenly reminders rarely raise us in self-forgetful, still-thumbed worship. I, for one, often spend more time looking at the weather app than the weather.

“I, for one, often spend more time looking at the weather app than the weather.”

But even if we were untethered from our pocket portals, who has the time to walk at the pace of clouds? As children, we could spare a few moments to lie upon the grass and spot animals above, but no longer. Now we have places to go, people to see. Now we run through our days, and you can run faster with your head down.

Punching Skylights

In a world like ours, and with roofs like ours, we need to find a way of getting out and looking up. We need to punch some skylights through this plaster. And not simply because a little wonder does wonders for the soul, but also because, for those who know Scripture, the sky reinforces lessons we can hardly live without. What might happen, then, if we made a habit of staring at the blue with Bible in hand?

We might feel, first, a deeper sense of God’s greatness. The biblical writers didn’t need a telescope to know the heavens were huge, nor did they need knowledge of galaxies to feel themselves small — too small for significance, even (Psalm 8:4). The sky, to them, was enormous.

Still, vast as it may be, it was only the finger-work of God (Psalm 8:3), a house far too small to hold him (1 Kings 8:27). The heavens have always been God’s giant throne (Isaiah 66:1); modern astronomy, in telling us the throne is even larger than we thought, simply underlines the greatness of the one who sits upon it. He is “Lord of heaven and earth” (Acts 17:24), outstripping the skies by infinity.

Yet as we start to feel small beneath such greatness, we might also feel a fresh sense of God’s goodness. If he “determines the number of the stars” and “gives to all of them their names,” then no broken heart lies hidden from his sight (Psalm 147:3–4). If the sky rises to unthinkable heights, then God’s steadfast love in Christ must outstretch our small assumptions (Psalm 103:11). And if God upholds the “fixed order” of the heavens without fail, then his faithfulness to his loved ones will never cease, no matter how dark the night or late the dawn (Jeremiah 31:35–36).

For those in Christ, the sky everywhere proclaims that curious mixture of our smallness and our significance. And small but significant people have a wonderful way of walking through this world: humble and happy, self-forgetful and satisfied, lowly and yet, remarkably, loved by the Lord of heaven.

Light of Lights

Most of all, however, the sky offers a big, ever-present reminder of a big, ever-present truth: we are made for God. The sky’s bigness is a sign that we are not the center; its song is a soundtrack of a story not our own. Like small planets to the sun, we orbit God, not he us. And our joy and glory lie in living before him as pervasively as we live beneath the sky.

For one day, this celestial parable will give way to the Person; the sky will not simply sing his glory, but show the Glorious One. The sky, so steady and familiar, will “roll up like a scroll” (Isaiah 34:4), and the lyrics of love written there will give way to the Lord of love.

God sowed this tapestry to be torn. He built this firmament to be broken. He laid the beams of the heavens so that one day they might become the stage for his Son’s return.

One day our Lord will split the sky,The joy or dread of every eye.The sun will fall before his face,The moon will hurry to its place,And every star will see the sightOf heaven’s Glory burning bright.The Morning Star will take his throneAnd, Light of lights, will shine alone.

Look up, then, as one in darkness aching for dawn. Wait at this window like a wife who hears that the war is ended, her husband comes. Befriend this path on which our Lord will soon return. Consider it worthwhile, even every now and then, to stop and hear again the song of the sky.

Counseling for Normal Christians

When unsure of what to say, when perplexed and tongue-tied — we can still simply recite God’s own words, knowing that every syllable, rightly handled, holds spiritual power. Yes, caring for each other can be complex, but not so complex that ordinary believers cannot deeply minister to one another through humble Scripture-quoting and earnest prayer. The Bible’s words, not ours, are God-breathed, and sometimes the best counsel is a simple breathing of his breath.

A man in your small group asks you for counsel. For the last few weeks, he has suffered from debilitating back pain. He knows a broken body is an inescapable part of this fallen world, but he also wonders whether God is disciplining him for something. What does he need — a careful probing of the heart for sin, or an assurance that his suffering, though mysterious, is not in vain?
In your accountability group, a brother confesses to looking at pornography again. He says he’s struggling and fighting. He also seems ashamed. But he has seemed ashamed before, with little change. What does he need — a loving but firm warning, or another reminder that there is no condemnation in Christ?
A young woman you know has felt a gathering darkness over heart and mind. In her depression, she has begun to drift from Christian fellowship and other means of grace. She wonders aloud to you if she’s really a Christian. What does she need — an encouragement that God is with her, an exhortation to return to the church, a referral to a medical doctor, or all three?
“Admonish the idle, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak,” the apostle Paul tells us (1 Thessalonians 5:14). But sometimes the fainthearted seem idle and the idle seem fainthearted; sometimes the weak look willful and the willful look weak. If only people came with a sign on the forehead: “Admonishment needed”; “Encouragement, please”; “A little help will do.”
But they don’t. Instead, people come to us just as we come to others: compound and complex, confused and confusing. People are seas, with hearts hidden deep. And God calls us to be divers.
Water from the Deepest Sea
God really does call us, all of us, to discern the deep-down hearts of our brothers and sisters. No, we are not all pastors or professional counselors. But heart work and soul care do not belong to pastors and counselors alone. Paul wrote 1 Thessalonians 5:14 to the whole church, not just its leaders. Which means God calls all of us to admonish, to encourage, to help — and to discern when to do which. He calls all of us to counsel.
And if he calls us to counsel, he calls us to grow in counseling, which often begins with noticing our tendencies to counsel not so well. Perhaps you can relate to a few common faults I fall prey to, at least when left to myself.
Left to myself, I counsel quickly. I may give a show of good listening as you talk, but often I have already finished your sentences and am crafting my response. “Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak,” James writes (James 1:19). But why should I slow my speech when I already know what to say? So I nod with polite impatience, forgo follow-up questions, and give the answer already waiting on my lips.
Left to myself, I also counsel superficially. “The purpose in a man’s heart is like deep water,” the wise man tells us (Proverbs 20:5), but my natural plumb line is short. Too often, I counsel in the shallows — addressing this behavior, developing a plan for that habit, while the heart still hides in the deeps.
And left to myself, I counsel lopsidedly. Comfort comes easily to my tongue; not so with correction. No doubt, our churches know some who correct others all too easily. Like Eliphaz the Temanite, they struggle to let words for the wind blow away (Job 6:26), but seize them, fix upon them, and fashion their rebuke. They speak confidently. They speak courageously. But like Eliphaz, they do not always speak “what is right” (Job 42:7).
But I usually fall off on the other side. The Puritan John Owen warned of counselors like me at my worst — counselors who “have good words in readiness for all comers,” no matter who the comer may be. We affirm; we encourage; we assure and console and uplift. We reflect a Jesus ever tender, rarely (or never) tough. Owen’s assessment of such counsel was not hopeful: “seldom useful, ofttimes pernicious” (Works of John Owen, 6:568).
So, we seek to grow. We seek to replace our common follies with the slow, deep, well-rounded wisdom of the Spirit. But how?
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Counseling for Normal Christians

A man in your small group asks you for counsel. For the last few weeks, he has suffered from debilitating back pain. He knows a broken body is an inescapable part of this fallen world, but he also wonders whether God is disciplining him for something. What does he need — a careful probing of the heart for sin, or an assurance that his suffering, though mysterious, is not in vain?

In your accountability group, a brother confesses to looking at pornography again. He says he’s struggling and fighting. He also seems ashamed. But he has seemed ashamed before, with little change. What does he need — a loving but firm warning, or another reminder that there is no condemnation in Christ?

A young woman you know has felt a gathering darkness over heart and mind. In her depression, she has begun to drift from Christian fellowship and other means of grace. She wonders aloud to you if she’s really a Christian. What does she need — an encouragement that God is with her, an exhortation to return to the church, a referral to a medical doctor, or all three?

“Admonish the idle, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak,” the apostle Paul tells us (1 Thessalonians 5:14). But sometimes the fainthearted seem idle and the idle seem fainthearted; sometimes the weak look willful and the willful look weak. If only people came with a sign on the forehead: “Admonishment needed”; “Encouragement, please”; “A little help will do.”

But they don’t. Instead, people come to us just as we come to others: compound and complex, confused and confusing. People are seas, with hearts hidden deep. And God calls us to be divers.

Water from the Deepest Sea

God really does call us, all of us, to discern the deep-down hearts of our brothers and sisters. No, we are not all pastors or professional counselors. But heart work and soul care do not belong to pastors and counselors alone. Paul wrote 1 Thessalonians 5:14 to the whole church, not just its leaders. Which means God calls all of us to admonish, to encourage, to help — and to discern when to do which. He calls all of us to counsel.

And if he calls us to counsel, he calls us to grow in counseling, which often begins with noticing our tendencies to counsel not so well. Perhaps you can relate to a few common faults I fall prey to, at least when left to myself.

Left to myself, I counsel quickly. I may give a show of good listening as you talk, but often I have already finished your sentences and am crafting my response. “Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak,” James writes (James 1:19). But why should I slow my speech when I already know what to say? So I nod with polite impatience, forgo follow-up questions, and give the answer already waiting on my lips.

Left to myself, I also counsel superficially. “The purpose in a man’s heart is like deep water,” the wise man tells us (Proverbs 20:5), but my natural plumb line is short. Too often, I counsel in the shallows — addressing this behavior, developing a plan for that habit, while the heart still hides in the deeps.

And left to myself, I counsel lopsidedly. Comfort comes easily to my tongue; not so with correction. No doubt, our churches know some who correct others all too easily. Like Eliphaz the Temanite, they struggle to let words for the wind blow away (Job 6:26), but seize them, fix upon them, and fashion their rebuke. They speak confidently. They speak courageously. But like Eliphaz, they do not always speak “what is right” (Job 42:7).

But I usually fall off on the other side. The Puritan John Owen warned of counselors like me at my worst — counselors who “have good words in readiness for all comers,” no matter who the comer may be. We affirm; we encourage; we assure and console and uplift. We reflect a Jesus ever tender, rarely (or never) tough. Owen’s assessment of such counsel was not hopeful: “seldom useful, ofttimes pernicious” (Works of John Owen, 6:568).

So, we seek to grow. We seek to replace our common follies with the slow, deep, well-rounded wisdom of the Spirit. But how?

1. Learn from the Wonderful Counselor.

Isaiah 50:4 gives us a long-term aim and a daily practice. Isaiah speaks most immediately of the Lord’s servant, the Lord’s Christ, but his pattern gives shape to our own.

The Lord God has given me     the tongue of those who are taught,that I may know how to sustain with a word     him who is weary.Morning by morning he awakens;     he awakens my ear     to hear as those who are taught.

The wisest counselors speak with “the tongue of those who are taught.” They can fill weary spirits with courage; they can correct and restore straying hearts. And all by simply opening their mouth. In dim reflection of God’s own speech, they bring light and life “with a word.” To have such a tongue is our long-term aim.

We won’t attain that aim, however, without daily listening — and listening not first to others, but to God. He himself is the “Wonderful Counselor” (Isaiah 9:6), and “morning by morning,” he awakens our ear to learn more of his wonderful ways — his wonderful, surprising ways.

Consider the counseling of our Lord Jesus himself, the one with the perfectly God-taught tongue. Who among us would have told the rich young ruler to go sell all he had (Mark 10:21)? Or who would have known when to gently chide Peter, when to ignore him, and when to address him as Satan (Matthew 14:31; 16:23; 17:4–5)? Or who would have warned the healed paralytic to “sin no more, that nothing worse may happen to you” (John 5:14)? Or who would have restored a fallen disciple without reproof (John 21:15–19)?

To be sure, we do not have the depth of insight that Jesus did. But as we listen to him — and to the words of God throughout the rest of Scripture — we start to gain fresh instincts. We see new sides to old problems. We find new keys to old locks. We realize that our spiritual medicine cabinet has only one or two shelves, while God’s is a walk-in. And so, slowly, we become more like the Balm of Gilead himself, who holds ten thousand balms.

To those who want to be taught, Bible reading and meditation offers a daily tutelage under our Wonderful Counselor, giving us words as deep as human hearts.

2. Listen — really listen — to others.

Then, in time, counseling opportunities arise. We sit across the table from a small-group member, or drive alongside an accountability partner, or talk on the phone with a friend in need. And before we venture to speak, we find ourselves faced with a task that can often feel harder than opening our mouths: keeping them closed. So, we listen. We really listen.

True listening can easily elude us, even after we have lingered silently in God’s presence. James counsels quick hearing and slow speech because we often reverse the speeds (James 1:19). So, we may feel an inner itch to offer counsel now, before we’ve really heard. We may want to interrupt impulsively. We may focus so intently on our coming response that another’s words become muffled, lost somewhere between their mouth and our ears. And hearing, we don’t hear.

Two resolves may help to open our ears. First, we can resolve to not finish another’s sentences — either in mind or in mouth. Sentence-finishing can take many shapes. Rehearsing an answer while another still speaks; assuming we know where a story is headed; allowing thoughts to wander because we think we’ve got the gist — all these can be subtle ways of finishing sentences we haven’t yet heard. And they take us dangerously close to the unwisdom of Proverbs 18:13: “If one gives an answer before he hears, it is his folly and shame.”

Second, we can resolve to ask questions. Questions are speed bumps for quick tongues. They slow us down, forcing us to clarify rather than assume, allowing others the dignity of both finishing and explaining their own sentences. Asked wisely, questions also guide us toward the hidden deep-sea heart, as we learn to plumb below the surface of behavior and ponder darker depths. And slowly, as we swim in this sea of words, we begin to grasp a pearl. Hearing, we hear.

Whatever other strategies we may use to listen well, wise counselors enter a conversation ready to be surprised, confronted, and drawn in by another’s complex humanity.

3. Pray, discern, respond.

The process so far may look somewhat passive, but the true listener is anything but. Beneath the questions and calm demeanor is a spirit of prayer. He tries fitting pieces together. He “ponders how to answer” in the conversation’s pauses (Proverbs 15:28). And he discerns. He begins to trace an idler’s sluggishness coming to light; he sees a faintness of the heart appearing; he touches upon some profound weakness.

We will not always discern rightly, of course. Our listening and our questions may reveal the heart, but they cannot read the heart. And if even the apostles could misjudge the hearts of men (Acts 8:13, 20–23; 2 Timothy 4:10), surely we will do the same.

But we can grow. And we will know we are growing, in part, when we find ourselves surprised by what we say. In addressing a certain struggle, we had always spoken comfort; now we hear ourselves exhorting. In addressing a certain person, we usually corrected; now we find ourselves offering practical help. Increasingly, our words, like the people in front of us, gain depth. We respond to complexity with wisdom and creativity. We reflect, in some small measure, what David Powlison calls “our Redeemer’s skillful love” (The Pastor as Counselor, 15).

And when in doubt — when unsure of what to say, when perplexed and tongue-tied — we can still simply recite God’s own words, knowing that every syllable, rightly handled, holds spiritual power. Yes, caring for each other can be complex, but not so complex that ordinary believers cannot deeply minister to one another through humble Scripture-quoting and earnest prayer. The Bible’s words, not ours, are God-breathed, and sometimes the best counsel is a simple breathing of his breath.

But whether we speak God-shaped words or God’s own words, the more we grow in wisdom, the more often we will see the proverb come to pass: “To make an apt answer is a joy to a man, and a word in season, how good it is!” (Proverbs 15:23). How good indeed to feel the heart lovingly plumbed, kindly searched, and then skillfully addressed with our Counselor’s wonderful wisdom.

Stepping Through Darkness

Keep praying, keep waiting, keep looking for the kingdom you cannot trace. Set your weary heart like a watchman on the walls, asking and aching for morning. Obey your Lord in the darkness, and dare to believe that he will bring the dawn.

For some saints, in some seasons, the spiritual darkness can rest so thick, and last so long, that normal patterns of obedience begin to feel futile.
We’ve read and prayed and fought temptation, for weeks or months or maybe years. But now, perhaps, we wonder what’s the point. Why read when little changes? Why pray when God seems silent? Why obey in the lonely dark when no one seems to see or care? The days have been sunless for so long; why live as if the sky will soon turn bright?
Not all of God’s people have known such seasons. But for those who have, or will, God has not left us friendless. Here in the dark, a brother walks before us, his day far blacker than ours, his obedience a torch on the road ahead.
His story takes place on Good Friday, dark Friday, dead Friday. For some time, he had let his hope take flight, daring to believe he had seen, in Jesus, his own Messiah’s face. But then Friday came, and he watched that face drain into gray; he saw his Lord hang limp upon the cross. And somehow, someway, he did not flee. He did not fall away. He did not sink into despair.
Instead, Joseph of Arimathea “took courage and went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus” (Mark 15:43). Three nails and a spear had snuffed out his sun. And without any light to guide him, Joseph still obeyed.
Joseph’s Unlikely Obedience
In this simple account of Jesus’s burial, we find a most unlikely obedience.
First, Joseph was not one of the twelve disciples, whom we might expect to see at such a moment. Until now, in fact, he had followed Jesus “secretly” (John 19:38). “A respected member of the council” (Mark 15:43), Joseph was a disciple in high places, a man who kept his allegiances mostly quiet. Yet on Good Friday, when his allegiance was least likely to do him good, he speaks.
Second, burying Jesus would have cost Joseph dearly. Financially, he bought the linen shroud himself and placed Jesus in a tomb he had just cut — no doubt with other purposes in mind (Mark 15:46; Matthew 27:57). Ceremonially, handling a dead body rendered him unclean. And socially, he embraced the indignity of touching blood and sweat, of bending his grown body under another’s, as if he were a slave or Roman soldier.
Third, and most surprising, Joseph, along with the other disciples, had every reason to feel his hopes crucified, breathless as the body he carried. We have no cause to suspect he saw the resurrection coming. Like the eleven, huddled in that hopeless locked room, he surely expected the stone to stay unmoved.
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How to Love a Sister in Christ: A Guide for Single Men

Throughout my decade as an unmarried man in the church (from age 19 to 29), I learned a lot about godly single manhood. One lesson that proved somewhat elusive, however, was how to relate to single women.

I no doubt grew some in that area. My Christian twenties avoided much of the foolishness from my non-Christian teens (thank God). I enjoyed some healthy relationships with sisters in Christ — relationships marked by clarity, mutual respect, and the right kind of friendship. But I often felt adrift. I sometimes kept a cool distance when I should have spoken a kind word. I sometimes drew close when I should have maintained some space. I guessed and second-guessed. I wounded and was wounded.

The spiritual sisters in a single man’s life are an incalculable gift. In fact, among the “hundredfold” blessings Jesus promises to those who follow him, he specifically mentions not only “houses and brothers and . . . mothers and children and lands,” but “sisters” (Mark 10:29–30). Jesus gives these sisters to single men (and single men to these sisters) as friends and fellow pilgrims on the path from grace to glory.

But relating well to sisters in Christ takes care. It takes love and wisdom, humility and counsel, self-control and sensitivity to the Spirit. So, how might a single man mature in his relationships with single women? How might he become more of the brother Jesus calls him to be?

Our Call to Honor

If we were to pick one word to capture a single man’s overall posture toward the women in his life, it may be honor. The apostle Peter names honor as a central part of a husband’s calling toward his wife (1 Peter 3:7), but such honor doesn’t begin when a man becomes a husband. It begins when he becomes a brother. Built into godly brotherhood is an impulse to protect and respect, to cherish and keep — to honor.

“Built into godly brotherhood is an impulse to protect and respect, to cherish and keep — to honor.”

Consider, for example, two sterling models of single brotherhood in the New Testament: our Lord Jesus and his apostle Paul. Jesus was not ashamed to call his female disciples “sisters” (Matthew 12:50). Though he chose men as his twelve apostles, he called many women to follow him as well, sometimes even living off their financial provision (Luke 8:1–3). We get a good sense of how women felt around Jesus in Luke 10:39, where Mary sits lovingly at her brother-Lord’s feet — safe, at home, honored.

Paul, like his Lord, did not hesitate to honor the honorable sisters in his life, and to do so publicly. Of the twenty-nine people he greets in Romans 16, nine are women. And of these women, “our sister Phoebe” receives his first commendation as the carrier of Romans and Paul’s own patron (Romans 16:1–2). In Philippians also, as Paul mentions Euodia and Syntyche, he not only calls the women to unity but commends them as sisters “who have labored side by side with me in the gospel” (Philippians 4:3). Paul seemed to set boundaries on his relationships with women — all his traveling companions were men, for example — but within those boundaries, he was eager to honor.

So, if a single man wants to relate to women as Jesus and Paul did, he will learn the art of honoring sisters. He will ask how he might make women feel safe, dignified, and seen. And to that end, he might give his attention to four key postures: purity, clarity, courage, and community.

1. Purity (in the Secret Mind)

When Paul tells the young Timothy how he should relate to the various members of his church, he calls him to treat “younger women as sisters, in all purity” (1 Timothy 5:2). Such purity would shape Timothy’s outward behavior toward women, but only by first shaping his inward character, including the most secret realms of heart and mind.

A godly man knows that impure words and actions both come “out of the abundance of the heart” (Matthew 12:34; 15:19). So, a godly man guards his heart above all else. He knows that if this city is taken, the whole realm falls. If this fountain is polluted, every stream becomes dirty. No matter how much he may seem to honor women on the outside, his honor is hypocrisy as long as he defiles women on the inside. And in all likelihood, inward dishonor will find its way outward in time.

Purity, then, is his pursuit — and purity not just on the margins of heart and mind, but through and through. He opens every window, every door, from closet to cellar to attic, asking God to cleanse the whole house. No pornography is good; no fantasy is better. No fantasy is good; no second glances are better. No second glances are good; no subtle assessments of a woman’s shape are better.

No man (or woman, for that matter) will attain perfect purity here. Perfect purity comes only when we finally see Jesus’s face (1 John 3:2). Until then, grace abounds to every struggler walking in the light. But if we want to honor the women in our lives, we will begin here. We will believe that inward purity, flowing from a lively joy in Jesus, carries pleasures impurity can never give. And so we will say no to lust and keep saying no; we will say yes to Christ and keep saying yes.

2. Clarity (in Word and Deed)

Then, having set his sights on purity, he turns his attention also to clarity. Among our churches’ single women, some likely feel confused about a single brother’s behavior. Does he just like being friends, or does he want more? Would he text so much if he weren’t interested in dating? What should I do if we keep having deep conversations?

On the one hand, such questions are sometimes unavoidable; they arise naturally from the uncertainty of singleness. On the other hand, single men can do much to mark their relationships with clarity. They can speak in ways that avoid flirtation and suggestion. They can act consistently with their intentions. They can bring the blessed air of clarity into a relational setting often fraught with confusion.

“Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others,” Paul writes (Philippians 2:4). Relationships with single women often tempt a man to look to his own interests. Flirting feels fun. Sharing jokes offers a sense of intimacy. Trading glances touches some deep yearning for closeness. Yet when flirtations and inside jokes and mutual looks happen apart from an intentional pursuit, they can trample a woman’s interests underfoot.

How might a man tell if he’s relating to women with clarity in word and deed? He might ask the following questions:

Do I find myself showing special attention to any woman? Do I drift to her first in a crowd? Do I instinctively look her way in group conversation? Do I communicate with the kind of depth or frequency that might suggest interest?
Do I sense any woman giving me special attention? And if so, have I done something to welcome and encourage her interest?

“Rightly built, clear boundaries give space for good things to grow.”

Rightly built, clear boundaries give space for good things to grow. When a sister has no doubt that a man is merely a brother, he can honor her without suspicion, he can do ministry beside her (and others) without suggestion, and he can enjoy conversation without unwisely awakening love.

3. Courage (in Pursuit)

The time comes, of course, when a relationship marked by clarity seems like it could become more. Gradually, a woman grows in a man’s esteem. Their friendship deepens within wise boundaries. He wonders if she could feel the same. How does he honor her now, as his heart turns toward pursuit? In part, by showing courage.

Someone needs to take the first frightening step. Someone needs to initiate the risky conversation, say the bold word, ask the honest question. Someone needs to lead in vulnerability. Why not you? The call for clarity has already taught a man to treat her interests above his own, so why not in pursuit as well?

No doubt, women can also find ways to show courage. Remember Ruth. But in general, the impulse of a godly man to protect the women around him bids him to bare his heart first, knowing full well it may be rejected. “From heaven he came and sought her,” we sing of our Bridegroom. So, in dim reflection of him, go and seek your bride.

To be sure, we should beware of reckless courage. Sometimes, a man pursues a woman who barely knows him and has less than a clue of what’s coming. She has heard him speak only from across the room; she has known him only at a distance. And now, out of nowhere, he’s sharing his soul (and maybe even using the m-word). He tries to pick her up in his car while traveling 60 miles per hour.

But recklessness aside, a godly single man cannot escape courage. She may well disappoint you to your face, but she will in all likelihood respect you. You will have honored her by your pursuit, your clarity, your courage, and the Lord Jesus knows how to heal hearts injured on the road of honor (Psalm 147:3).

Finally, in every part of single brotherhood, lean deeply into your community. Sometimes, purity can feel unattainable. Clarity can feel confusing. Courage can feel hopelessly daunting. But with a community at your side — counseling you with wisdom (Proverbs 12:15), stirring you up “to love and good works” (Hebrews 10:24) — it can all feel suddenly possible.

My colleague Marshall Segal calls community “the third wheel we all need”:

We all need a third wheel — in life and in dating — people who truly know us and love us, and who want what’s best for us, even if it’s not what we want in the moment. (Not Yet Married, 171)

Such people may not be easy to find. And even if we do find them, they may not voluntarily offer the counsel we need to hear. We probably will need to seek and draw it out of them. Go ahead, then, and tell a brother what temptation looks like right now. Ask a married couple to keep an eye on your relationships with single women — and to tell you if you seem flirtatious or standoffish. When the time for courage comes, find strength from the words and prayers of others. And then find comfort if you’re wounded.

No man remains on the path of honor alone. But with the help of brothers, fathers, and mothers — gifts of that hundredfold community Jesus promised — he can learn to love and honor the sisters in his life.

Stepping Through Darkness: Obedience on the Hardest Days

For some saints, in some seasons, the spiritual darkness can rest so thick, and last so long, that normal patterns of obedience begin to feel futile.

We’ve read and prayed and fought temptation, for weeks or months or maybe years. But now, perhaps, we wonder what’s the point. Why read when little changes? Why pray when God seems silent? Why obey in the lonely dark when no one seems to see or care? The days have been sunless for so long; why live as if the sky will soon turn bright?

Not all of God’s people have known such seasons. But for those who have, or will, God has not left us friendless. Here in the dark, a brother walks before us, his day far blacker than ours, his obedience a torch on the road ahead.

His story takes place on Good Friday, dark Friday, dead Friday. For some time, he had let his hope take flight, daring to believe he had seen, in Jesus, his own Messiah’s face. But then Friday came, and he watched that face drain into gray; he saw his Lord hang limp upon the cross. And somehow, someway, he did not flee. He did not fall away. He did not sink into despair.

Instead, Joseph of Arimathea “took courage and went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus” (Mark 15:43). Three nails and a spear had snuffed out his sun. And without any light to guide him, Joseph still obeyed.

Joseph’s Unlikely Obedience

In this simple account of Jesus’s burial, we find a most unlikely obedience.

First, Joseph was not one of the twelve disciples, whom we might expect to see at such a moment. Until now, in fact, he had followed Jesus “secretly” (John 19:38). “A respected member of the council” (Mark 15:43), Joseph was a disciple in high places, a man who kept his allegiances mostly quiet. Yet on Good Friday, when his allegiance was least likely to do him good, he speaks.

Second, burying Jesus would have cost Joseph dearly. Financially, he bought the linen shroud himself and placed Jesus in a tomb he had just cut — no doubt with other purposes in mind (Mark 15:46; Matthew 27:57). Ceremonially, handling a dead body rendered him unclean. And socially, he embraced the indignity of touching blood and sweat, of bending his grown body under another’s, as if he were a slave or Roman soldier.

Third, and most surprising, Joseph, along with the other disciples, had every reason to feel his hopes crucified, breathless as the body he carried. We have no cause to suspect he saw the resurrection coming. Like the eleven, huddled in that hopeless locked room, he surely expected the stone to stay unmoved.

To be sure, Joseph’s act was beautiful. But by all appearances, it was hopelessly beautiful. Beautiful like a farmer in famine, tenderly planting a seed he never expects to see. Beautiful like the last living soldier, marching into battle alone.

And yet, maybe even then, Joseph’s hope had one more star still shining. And maybe it has enough life to give light to ours.

Last Star in the Sky

Amid all the darkness, a glimmer appears, faint and far off. Joseph, Luke tells us, “was looking for the kingdom of God” (Luke 23:51). He was looking on Friday morning; somehow, he was still looking on Friday evening, even as he held the kingdom’s dead King. What light sustained such a look?

Perhaps Joseph remembered how his father Abraham had believed “in hope . . . against hope” (Romans 4:18). And perhaps he, like Abraham, carried this slain Isaac to the tomb considering, on some dim level, “that God was able even to raise him from the dead” (Hebrews 11:19).

“God’s kingdom often advances most in the midst of unexpected, unlikely obedience.”

Perhaps he recalled how God had lit up black mornings before, raising the sun as if from a tomb. Perhaps he faintly wondered whether this lifter of Lazarus might somehow lift himself. Perhaps he held the shadow of a hope that Jesus was still somehow the Christ, and that the Christ couldn’t stay dead forever. The Pharisees remembered that Jesus said, “After three days I will rise” (Matthew 27:63); maybe Joseph did too. Maybe he couldn’t forget.

Either way, hope held a few final breaths in Joseph’s lungs, even after Jesus’s had left. So, he put one heavy foot in front of the other. He defied despair, defied his feelings, defied probabilities, and held the man he had followed. He walked under the gathered darkness of Good Friday, a man weighed down with the world’s dying hope. He took this lifeless King, carefully buried him, and somehow still believed his kingdom would come.

Have you known such a hope, one that meets you on dark mornings and rolls away the covers like a stone? Have you learned to look for the kingdom under the light of the sky’s last star? And if not, can you follow Joseph’s footprints, and dare to obey even when hope seems dead?

Courage to Keep Looking

We might imagine that experiences like Joseph’s have ceased on this side of the empty tomb. While Christ lives, can hope ever seem dead? No doubt, Joseph walked on unique ground. No saint since him has fought to believe and obey under circumstances so dire. None of us has held our Lord’s dead body.

But we should beware of underestimating how confused, futile, dark, and hopeless we can feel, even with Easter behind us. Jesus spoke of dark and cold days to come (Matthew 24:12). Peter wrote of grief and Paul of desperate groaning (1 Peter 1:6; Romans 8:22–25). At times, the great apostle himself bent down — discouraged, weary, “perplexed” (2 Corinthians 4:8). Post-Easter, our hope ever lives and reigns, but we cannot always see him. Some nights here seem too dark.

We might wish to walk beneath skies always bright, our hands full of breathing hope, our faith nearly turned to sight. Those days do come and, oh, what a gift they are. Looking for the kingdom feels easy then. So does obeying the King.

But for many of us, days will come when we feel more like Joseph, looking for a kingdom we cannot see. Our feelings may tell us the kingdom is dead, just as Jesus’s tomb seemed closed forever. But as Joseph’s story reminds us, God’s kingdom often advances most in the midst of unexpected, unlikely obedience. The tree inches upward, unseen, from the mustard seed. The leaven spreads silently through the lump. And in the midnight of our obedience, the darkness of the tomb awaits the moment when lungs will fill again with hope.

So then, with Joseph, take courage. Keep praying, keep waiting, keep looking for the kingdom you cannot trace. Set your weary heart like a watchman on the walls, asking and aching for morning. Obey your Lord in the darkness, and dare to believe that he will bring the dawn.

Get Behind Me, Sluggard

In Christ, whatever we do holds spiritual significance, from secret prayer to rising at our alarm, from fellowship to doubling down on our work. We live and labor before the eyes of our good Lord Jesus. His kingdom calls us. His Spirit fills us. His promises empower us. And his strength compels us to daily lay the sluggard to rest.

If you look deep inside yourself, you may notice, to your dismay, the presence of a singularly unattractive creature. You’ll need to look carefully, because he doesn’t move quickly (or sometimes at all). He camouflages under bed covers. He prefers the mumble over the clear word. His eyelids droop half open; his mouth holds back a dribble of drool. His name is sluggard.
We may prefer to keep the sluggard at a distance, to view this lazy creature only through binoculars or zoo glass. But somehow, he finds a native habitat in every soul, even the most hardworking. When the alarm buzzes, he paws the snooze. When a work project calls for relentless focus, he quietly opens a new browser tab. When some unwelcome duty faces us, one we’ve already put off too long, he nevertheless counsels, “Tomorrow.”
We may hesitate to study the sluggard, preferring to spare ourselves such an unseemly sight. But sometimes, our lazy self dies only when we take a long and careful look at him. “I passed by the field of a sluggard, by the vineyard of a man lacking sense,” the wise man tells us. “Then I saw and considered it; I looked and received instruction” (Proverbs 24:30, 32).
As we listen to the sluggard’s mutterings and consider the outcome of his laziness, we learn, by contrast, about a life of labor under the fear of the Lord. So, what instruction might the wise receive as they consider their inner sluggard?
1. ‘A little’ adds up.
A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest . . . (Proverbs 24:33)
The candy wrappers strewn around the sluggard’s bed, nearly ankle high now, all have one thing in common: in the moment, they were each “a little.” A little snack, a little break, a little reward, a little treat. He squandered his parents’ allowance in much the same way. Just one more in-app purchase. Just a little more takeout.
The wise hear and receive instruction. “A little,” it turns out, is anything but — at least when joined to a thousand other littles. Many little raindrops make a lake. Many little chops fell a tree. And therefore, how we handle little — little temptations, little decisions, little opportunities for self-denial — matters a lot.
Solomon points us to one of God’s littlest creatures as evidence. “Go to the ant, O sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise” (Proverbs 6:6). Yes, ants are tiny, this one carrying a speck of dirt, that one a bit of leaf, a third a crumb of bread. An ant cannot accomplish much quickly, but over time, by little and little, an anthill rises from the dirt; a network of underground tunnels takes shape; a colony is warm and fed.
Too often, in fleeing from my inner sluggard, I have tripped from trying to run too fast. Reckoning with how destructive the sluggard’s littles can be, I have thought, “Much! I must do much!” I will finish ten projects this week — no, twenty! I will work out Monday through Friday without exception! I will lead thirty-minute family devotions every night!
Sometimes, indeed, the path from the sluggard’s home rises steep and takes a running start. But most of the time, we are wiser to walk, exchanging little follies for little wisdoms, developing modest, ant-like resolutions and then building upon them. Along the way, we refuse this little compromise for that little obedience; we shun this little laziness for that little labor. We lay each little difficulty before our Father in heaven. And little by little, we receive from him the strength to work more diligently.
2. Neglect grows weeds.
I passed by the field of a sluggard . . . and behold, it was all overgrown with thorns. (Proverbs 24:30–31)
As he rolls over on his bed, or goes for thirds at lunch, the sluggard hardly imagines he is doing any harm. What damage can a little more snoozing do? What’s the problem with a few more mouthfuls?
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